


My Burberry Blush

by Pastel_Feels



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Around Episode: s02e09 DC, Established Relationship, London Trip, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Their dinner dates (lovingly), They're both so starved of affection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Feels/pseuds/Pastel_Feels
Summary: “Close your eyes and trust me. I want to make you happy”“Do you think me an unhappy man?” Tom said grinning.“Yes.”
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33





	1. Cream puff

_I’m terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me._ Ewan had once said that offhandedly and it’s the only quote that he’s recited that’s actually stuck with him. This thing that this family has awakened inside of him, and the thing that Tom continues to feed like a feral dog.

The air is humid and sticky while also retaining its chill. Greg trudges along with Tom on the cobbled streets of some shopping district in London in a fashion that resembles an exhausted parent taking their spoiled kid to the mall. Tom made him carry all the bags. _’You're taller’, ’That doesn't mean I'm stronger?’._

Of course, some weird power-play thing that Tom has going on. To remind Greg of his place despite the little blip of time when he had the power to twist him in an uncomfortable position. Now that Tom felt secure in the idea that Greg didn't have any more cards up his sleeve, he was sure to compel Greg to keep his sleeves rolled permanently up. A weird combination of punishment and indulgence.

Except that he had saved a few cards from the inferno, and upon later inspection, they were all aces. And yet, there's something in Tom’s eyes that always stabs him back when he betrays him. It’s as if he has the ability to see him, see through him, but chooses not to. The immediate forgiveness in his olive eyes frequently makes him just a little nauseous, and whether or not Tom realizes its forgiveness he’s feeling is up for debate. To have that vulnerability and genuine openness thrust his direction is overwhelming. It makes his lies tongue-tied and his deception painful to commit to.

But he has to. Tom would understand that if he stopping thinking with his heart so often.

The bags of Ralph Lauren, Armani, Calvin Klein, etc. weigh on him literally and metaphorically. All of this pampering just feels like a really drawn out joke to make Greg realize how _absolutely squalid_ his life had been before Tom waltzed right in to take the reigns into his righteous and manicured hands. Tom’s taunting always made him uncomfortable enough to want his spirit to leave his body, but somehow there was a shrouded desire that whispered, begged for more of his attention. That same shadow gets a little kick out of being Tom’s little charity case, and an even bigger kick feeling like Tom’s _sugar baby._

He might laugh if the idea didn’t mortify him to the core.

The clamminess of the city makes his shirt stick to his body in odd places that make him shift awkwardly every few seconds as much as his range will allow while being restricted by the avoirdupois of Tom’s shopping spree. To be completely candid, he's out of breath and he doesn't know if he can stand being the bull in any more china shops. 

”Hey, hey Tom? Can I, would it be, like, acceptable, if I waited outside? Because I'm kind of exhausted?”

”You’re really going to miss Burberry, Greg? We're in fucking _London_ and you're going to wait outside of Burberry because you're a little jet-lagged? Grow a goddamn pair, huh buddy?” Tom throws an honestly overreactive glare in his direction. There's a tense moment before epiphany strikes his face and his lips twist into a vicious smirk. ”Stay here. Read a fucking magazine or something, you frail cream puff.” Greg’s brow furrows but he smiles nonetheless.

”Uh, yeah, Tom, sure-” The door to the shop closes. He takes his advice and lumbers to the nearest magazine stand to put all of the bags he's been packmuling around in a neat pile. He picks up a British Vogue and flips to a random page to look busy, but something actually catches his eye. He hates to be stereotypical, but he can't help but notice the stitchwork done on the bra constructed from a pair of shiny gloves. The hands cup the model’s breasts in a really erotic way that makes his mouth go dry. The model also wears a pair of sheer gloves that go past her elbow. He thinks Tom has called them ’opera-length’. His breath catches in his throat painfully as he imagines the slippery fabric of the top against his flat chest. _Imagines Tom’s soft hands replace the inanimate ones of the garment._

He feels so ridiculous for even entertaining thoughts like that about his boss on a business trip. His boss that he may or may not fuck on a semi-regular basis...

Anyways, it's stupid. He stuffs the magazine into one of the larger bags to forget about it. 

He gets two cups of coffee from a Starbucks stand and waits a while longer for Tom to come out of the store. It had already rained a couple of times during the day, the streets gleamed and reflected golden light from the street lamps, and the oppressive clouds threatened another downpour. 

Once he does come out, Tom takes one of the cups from Greg’s hand, replacing it with an uncharacteristically small bag, and claps him on the back. After the harsh slap, his hand lingers and smooths over his shoulder as if he likes the texture of his sweater and wants to feel it more. Interested blood flushes Greg’s cheeks and he knows that Tom noticed because he rolls his eyes and pulls away like he’s been burned.

That was just something so _Tom_. Greg had a good feel for his moods and he’d become awfully predictable. It’s always the slap, the soothe, and the escape.

Tom takes a pocket-sized umbrella from his coat and covers only himself, though it would be ridiculous if he did attempt to fit Greg under with him. 

”I think I’m all done here. You?” 

Greg only nods in response, thanking whatever higher power that this wasn't some divine, Tartarus-like punishment that wouldn't end, more and more bags piling in his apologetic and traitorous arms while rain paints his hair to his face.

***

Tom leans against the glass of the elevator, watching the sunset against the London skyline. Greg thinks he should be the one hunched over with how sore his back and arms are, but at least Tom helped him load the bags in the trunk of the car. While pressed in the confines of the backseat—Tom wasn’t all too _pressed_ —Greg tried to grill him over what he bought in Burberry, but was unsuccessful even for his own incredibly low standards. Tom hadn't been in a big talking mood the entire day, only speaking when Greg awkwardly broke the silence, broken this unspoken truce to remain silent.

Now he was on his way to their hotel _room_. One room.

Tom’s blondish eyelashes reflect the sun’s gentle stream through the heavy onset of clouds. He blinks a couple of times while working his jaw with his mouth open. It makes Greg want to crowd his space, make the railing cut into his pelvis as his lips crush along his neck from behind.

Worrying his lip between his teeth, Tom turns to face Greg, one brow raised. He looked like he was considering something before the elevator landed on their floor.


	2. No names

Greg had contemplated asking Tom about the single hotel room and how it may look if the two of them were to be spotted, but then he remembered that Tom has a pretty big hand up the ass of ATN and that it was safe to say he would make the puppet speak only the words he wished it to. It didn’t feel great sneaking around with him. Being something to be hidden. That’s not to say that Greg feels like he should be paraded around the streets of London, he knows why he can’t be. He’s just tired of Tom implicating him in every last one of his crimes and making them his own.

“I’m gonna make a few calls,” Tom said as he set his luggage on the bed and drug his feet into the lounge area. Greg caught him trying on a few different facial expressions. He tested a toothy smile, a sympathetic frown, and a surprised _’Oh’_. ”You gonna make any?”

“Uh, no, actually,” Greg said absentmindedly while scrolling through Instagram.

“Really? Not even your...like, mom? Have you become an empty suit of man, Greg?” He chuckles. “I’m being serious, dude, do you really not have anyone back home wondering about you? Or do you just not wanna call your yuppie friends in my _burdensome presence_?”

That snapped him out of his social media trance. “That’s, uh, that’s rich coming from you,” he murmured, tucking his hair behind his ear.

”Hm?”

”Nothing. I said nothing.” Greg clenches his jaw and takes a couple of deep breaths. He feels angry, but he's certain he looks defeated instead. It's always easier to downplay his emotions and let others believe what they want to about him. Always easier to surprise them that way. ”I don't want to, like, discuss this right now.”

”Ooh, he doesn't want to _discuss it_ —Oh hey, man. Didn't realize you picked up...” Greg stops listening in.

This—whatever _this_ was—had kind of taken over his life. He felt more comfortable being a blank slate than carrying all of his baggage from his past life into his new one. 

Every time Tom left the room, it was a reminder of how truly vacant it had been previously. How much space he makes for Tom and how starving and empty and naked he felt without his existence. That hunger usually gave way to an attempt to sate it. Tonight it would be the small vial of coke and the flask hidden in his shoes at the bottom of his luggage. Loosening his tie and rolling his sleeves up to his aching forearms, he takes a moment to compare the vial and flask because he doesn't think his heart can take both of them again after last night. It's probably why it was especially difficult today lugging those shopping bags around for hours.

He settles on the flask and gets off the bed to find some glasses in the kitchen area. It's fucking insane how large this hotel room was. What did they need a kitchen for? A lounge? At least if they fight tonight, Greg can curl up on the couch.

The glasses aren't in the kitchen. He tried for the lounge and finds them on the coffee table. He takes a seat on an overstuffed chair and pours a couple of shots of vodka, looking busy on his phone so it doesn't seem like he's eavesdropping on Tom’s conversation. He isn't. 

Greg makes so sure to be out of the room mentally that he doesn't notice Tom finishing his calls until he's straddling his lap and taking the glass from his shaking fingers.

”Tell me about your mother,” Tom says before taking a sip and grimacing.

Greg smiles and lets out a short laugh. ”Tell me about yours.” He drinks when Tom presses the rim of the glass to his lips. He nuzzles his alcohol flushed face into Tom’s warm neck and plants his hands just below his ass, rolling his hips upwards. “We could go shower.”

“Stop changing the subject-“ He’s cut off by his own gasp as Greg gently bites above his collar.

“Why are you being so, like, talkative all of a sudden, dude?” He kisses a line up his neck.

Tom shoves him by his shoulders and pins him to the chair back. “Because I care about you, _dude_.” His mouth tightens in a line and he loosens his grip on Greg. “I just want to make sure everything’s hunky-dory on your end. Before we, _you know_.”

“Is it on yours, Tom? Because, like, I don’t want to be antagonistic or anything, but we both know that you and Sh-“ he stops himself. “Sorry, I’m-I’m really sorry, Tom-Tom, you know I’m just-” Tom shifts off of Greg’s lap, scratching his palms. He's been doing that all day, all while popping aspirins like he doesn't have a liver or a stomach lining to be worried about. Greg stands too, carefully grasping Tom’s hand. Stress rash. ”Can we just...” He lowers his voice, ”shower?”

Tom remains silent, obviously trying to contain himself and look unbothered simultaneously.

After a long beat, ”Close your eyes and trust me. I want to make you happy.”

“Do you think me an unhappy man?” Tom says with a plastic grin.

“Yes.”

His smile falls with his eyelids. Greg adores him like this: blank, serene, sincere. To show his reverence, he cups Tom’s face in his large hands and places a quick peck over both of his eyes, taking too much joy from the twitches he feels beneath his lips.

He whispers a hasty _follow me_ before guiding Tom to the bathroom of the hotel room. As with everything else, it was fucking gigantic and needlessly opulent and nauseously minimalist and modern. The walk-in shower looked designed for more than one person, it was too big not to be. Greg makes a tender and slow show of stripping Tom. Assuring that Tom is in safe hands. Hands that won’t leave him a bloody and bruised pulp to die in the street.

For tonight at least.

Tom wants to feel like he’s enough for people, that much is apparent, but does he even know that he's all Greg has? Not only enough but something that leaves his heart flabby and loose when he's not with him. Leaves him always trying to fill that void that Tom has carelessly shot through him. Tom thinks that being at anyone’s beck and call will get him what he wants as well. Cowering at their feet with a plea in his eyes. He doesn’t have to kneel for Greg. He could force Greg’s face in the mud while twisting an arm behind his back and he would still get Tom a latte the next morning.

It feels self-deprecating, but he swears it isn’t. He earnestly believes that Tom would be a different person outside of his current circumstances. _I don’t always like who I am_. The rot thrives in the conditions of a slowly dying soul.

He has fantasies sometimes. The pipe dream of Tom not leaving. Staying with him as long as he needs and that being enough for him. Of course, the ambition that constantly gnaws at him wouldn't be sated and its jaw would snap to the bone if he and Tom ran away together. And Tom...well, he would never be satisfied with that kind of life. Both would grow sick with resentment and go back to being pathetic status seekers within a week.

They were In a domesticated romance, unable to survive in the wilderness. This is not a love story. It really can’t be, can it? He doesn’t know what other universe outside of this plastic, manufactured enclosure where Tom could be the one, and he seriously doubts that he would see anything in Greg outside of this shitstorm. 

Tom finches and shudders when Greg runs his hands over his skin in a soothing manner. This was the furthest they've ever gotten in the none-sexual intimacy department of their relationship and Tom can't remember the last time he was treated with such attention and gentle consideration. Greg smoothes that same comforting hold over his jaw, which he hadn't realized he’d been clenching. It feels as if the screen had been lifted from his eyes. This is what living probably feels like.

Greg steps away to start the shower, setting it to a just-below-scalding temperature, coming back to Tom to pull his micromodal boxers briefs down. He only remembers it because Tom spent about a week bragging about how good his cock felt against the fabric. Greg crouches to his knees to unclasp Tom’s sock garters, rolling the soft material down his shin and off of his foot. He digs his thumb into the muscle of Tom’s calf, grazing his teeth along the crescent moon shape his nail left in his skin. 

Greg stands to his full height to quickly divest himself of his clothing in an inelegant fashion and pull Tom into the shower with him. Tom is languid and pliant under Greg’s direction, sitting when hands nudge him back onto a shower seat. The harsh scent of sterile chemicals hits his nostrils.

” _Hotel shampoo_? Really, Greg? Do you want me to prematurely bald? Is that what you want?”

”Keep your eyes closed.” Greg’s not doing a great job of lathering the shampoo into his scalp, the motions are completely foreign and he isn't sure if he's being too rough or too soft. At some point, he gives up on trying to wash Tom’s hair and he starts to play with it instead. He runs a hand up the back of his neck and his head against the grain and experimentally tugs once he reaches the top. He presses a kiss to his exposed Adam's apple, which leads into kissing, which leads to Tom blindly reaching around for Greg’s dick, the latter twisting his hips to make it difficult, which leads to Tom biting down on his lip, which leads to Greg bowing down to his knees between Tom’s thighs to wash every beastly and pathetically human inch of his body. 

He feels so lost in the mist, lust fogging his mind and making every move less and less calculated, less and less intentional. His limbs move just to feel more of Tom’s skin, to fill his mind, his heart, his stomach with _Tom_. The way he feels beneath his palm. He felt overstuffed, forgot what the dull pain of hunger was.

It took around thirty minutes of them telling each other that they need to leave, _the water’s getting cold_ , for them to actually leave the shower. Greg wrapped a towel around his waist haphazardly before toweling down Tom’s shivering body. After he's dry, Greg and Tom stumble into the bedroom attached at the lip, and well, everything else.

”We’re going to die,” he says tripping for the nth time. ”All because of your little romantic gesture, you fucking sap.” Greg hushes him while pushing him to the bed. He climbs over him clumsily, trapping his wrists above his head. With the white towel tied around his hips, he looked uncannily similar to the martyrs he's seen in murals. He knows that one day, the fatal arrow will be delivered from his own bow.

By this time, the alcohol had pretty much vacated his system and abandoned him with the reality of how closely acquainted they’d become in the span of a few hours, which crushed him enough to leave him winded. Tom must have detected such.

”We need to talk.”

Greg huffs and flops down beside Tom.

“Sure, um,” he scratches his chin, “what do you want to talk about exactly?”

”Fuck, I don't know. I don't usually, uh, talk.”

”Then why do we need to? I mean, Tom, we aren't like—there isn't a ’we’, right?”

”There is a ’we’, just not in that way.”

”In what way then?”

”I don't know, Greg! I don’t have all the answers. I just fucking care about you. Is it that difficult for your little rodent brain to accept? And I want to know you, like really _know you_. I want you to trust me with that, man. It feels like you see right through to my soul, but you're like a—like a big, tall-ass wall.”

Greg would laugh, but it would rattle him even further.

”That’s not-that’s not in the like, script. We shouldn't.”

”And what is the script for this, Greg. Tell me how you envisioned this.”

”I-I don't know.”

”Yes, yes you do. I need you to tell me. We're not leaving this bed unless you do.”

Greg imagines a world where they can stay in this bed for all of eternity. Safe. Together.

”I mean, I just figured that you and Shiv would fix whatever you guys have going on and that one day all of this,” he gestures with his hand even if Tom can't see, ”would be gone. Not in a sad way, but just in a ’this-is-the-way-things-are-supposed-to-be’ kind of way.”

Tom props himself on his elbow and opens his eyes, brushing Greg’s wet locks from his face. ”Do you want me to be gone?”

Those words clawed their way through his ribs and savagely champed down on his heart. He closes his eyes and twists his face into something ugly. This isn't how things go. Tom’s not going to flee with him into the night.

”Don’t do this.”

”I’m not doing anything. Why won’t you let me in?”

”Because you're going to leave, Tom! I'll invest my everything in you and you’re gonna fucking run away in the middle of the night and take everything that I-that I _am_. And if you don't? I can't live with that, man. Knowing I ruined your life? I’m not the one, Tom. I won’t be your mid-life crisis or your self-destruction, or whatever. The less we know about each other, the more we can protect each other.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

”Come on, man. You know what I’m talking about. It's not personal.”

”Oh, I get. Not personal, mmhm. Totally.”

”I’m being fucking serious right now. I don't want either of us to be in a, like, position to throw the other under the bus.”

”And how would you throw me under the bus, Gregory?”

He says nothing. 

”Hey, look at me—open your eyes, and look at me. I’m not here and neither are you. We’re just two people in this room. Be a person, tell me something.” He was offering Greg a way out. A prison break from his own character.

“I love you.” _No name_. Love hadn’t been the right word, but it flung from his lips like it's been waiting in his mouth forever. Maybe he just wanted to hear it said back. Love is something raw, not something that comes prepackaged. Something that inspired hope, not something that imprisoned.

“I love you too” _No name_.

Maybe love can be all of those things. The beautiful and the monstrous, selfish and generous.

“Two people?” _Please_.

“Two people.”

Greg was not one of the people in this room. There was a person, though, and people cry.

Tears roll down this person’s cheek while the other person holds him and tells him loves him over and over again until his face is dry and the words turn to whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way that this is all I think about now...very sexy of me I think.


	3. Two People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”You’re not, like, upset, right?” The face he’s making—the crease and upturn of his brow and his unabashed grin that conspicuously hides a callous laugh—eggs him on. Taps that turn to continuous blows. “You understand why we can't-”

He wakes in a start to the sound of the door clicking shut. Tom’s incessant snoring kept him sleeping lightly. He was too lazy to get his nasal strip from his bag, and neither of them had even bothered to unpack. He wonders drowsily if Tom even got new clothes from his luggage or just shimmied into the ones Greg folded and placed on the counter next to the shower.

The light was left on in the bathroom and the door ajar, orange light bleeding into the room like the yolk of an especially runny egg. The sunken space next to him is still warm, but rapidly cooling. The windows are streaked with water droplets and he can hear the faint hum of traffic from below with a slow purr of rain. He rolls over to look at the clock on the nightstand. He had a few minutes to get dressed and catch a Uber to the airport (no private jets when the Roys aren’t involved). There wasn’t a reason for Tom to leave that early other than the obvious.

Greg slings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, immediately falling on his back as he feels the blood drain from his head. He lays for what seems like too long, trying to not think about last night with what he knows now and to not think about _him_. Every path in his mind leads to him. Every direction he turns, Tom is lying in wait with a dagger to peel him like an apple or an orange rind.

It's just not fair.

Not fair that every interaction has to have a winner and a loser. That any time either of them lets their guard down, the other—without hesitation—swoops in for the kill. That neither of them can help but to arm the other with specific ammunition. That they both slip drips of poison in each other’s chalices given an inch of a chance. It was cruel of them both, really. Love had been a bullet both had shot in a frenzied effort to wound the other. Greg knew that he hadn't _meant_ it, and he knew Tom didn't either. It still left him aching, though. Reeling for a life where he could mean it.

If he’s honest with himself, that isn’t quite true.

The part about the mutual mistrust. Greg did trust Tom. Not the way Tom trusts Greg. Greg trusts Tom because he knows that Tom isn’t as cut-throat as he thinks. He's all threats. Not even the faintest whiff of fear grazed his thoughts when Tom said he’d break his legs. It feels a lot less _romantic_ when he admits that he's probably the perpetrator in their situation. His stomach still ties in knots at night when he thinks too long about the implications of Tom saving his ass back in Hungary only for Greg to ”blackmail” him later for his own leg-up. He doesn't want to be this way, nor does he want to _victim-blame_ , but Tom just makes it so easy. Almost like he is begging for it. Why did he still want him by his side after doing something like that? Was it some off-color variant of keeping your enemies closer? Both should be wary of this entanglement. The closeness that had resulted from a violation. 

Except that Tom’s face lit up with manic pleasure when he had done so. Like Greg had finally taken a bite of the forbidden fruit, held faith in atrocity, and willingly condemned himself to damnation with Tom at his side.

He doesn’t know why Tom trusts him. He could speculate that Tom likes being hurt, subconsciously likes being a victim no matter how much he projects a virile man’s man to the world. Or maybe that he sought to find trust outside of his own household in him. That one’s a little too unsubstantiated and carried too much wishful thinking to be considered longer than a second.

Inextricably, Tom also spelled danger. Choosing to associate with someone as capricious as him and putting himself in harm’s way of a tornado of emotions and motives of a man such as Tom Wambsgans didn’t exactly read _smart_. 

Once he's finished sulking, he gets dressed directly from the crumbled pile on the bathroom floor. He figured his coat would cover the wrinkles, so he didn't inconvenience himself with rifling around his suitcase. However, when he did go to grab his luggage, he found that it had been zipped up. He was pretty sure he'd left it open from when he was searching for his stash. He didn't worry himself with the semantics, wanted to leave last night a blur. It was a blur.

**

It didn’t feel powerful. It didn’t even feel like slipping, more like plummeting from a waterfall over a deadly chasm with his stomach in his throat. Leaving was the only way to avoid impact at the gulf.

Tom knew he was destructive.

He takes such a sick pleasure in setting both of them aflame. Not the kind of fire that brings warmth or life, but an absolute desolation. Falling in the seemingly endless cascade, Tom fought the urge to see both of their bodies crushed against the pointed stones, thrashed by the gurgling and sobbing of falling water.

The cool wind blew icy raindrops into his face no matter how he held his umbrella.

He hears _‘I love you’_ s enough at home, it’s just that it’s always accompanied by something harsh and bitter to cut through the sweetness, like Shiv can’t stomach his love unless she seasons it to her palette. But that’s the thing about Tom. He has to take the pain with his milk and sugar. Coffee just doesn’t taste the same without it. He’s too much. His love is like slobber that he can’t help but get all over her shoes, and of course, it would be acceptable if it was only a little bit of spittle, endearing maybe, but instead, it’s repulsive.

He loves her, achingly so, and he knows she loves him, but neither can love the other in a way that resonates. That makes any of this make sense.

He has the driver stop at a cafe en route to the airport. Can’t be a dream-crusher on an empty stomach.

He can’t tell exactly whose dream he’s crushing by leaving early. He abandons that thought pattern for what he’s going to say to Greg the next time they speak. He craves the kicked puppy look, the one with Greg’s face twisted in unrestrained turmoil and his petal-shaped lips parted in what Tom can only compare to the religious ecstasy of dying saints. It’s pretentious as hell, but _that_ feels powerful. 

The look on Greg’s face last night cut to the bone and cast him from the ledge.

**

Leaving the man’s car at the airport is as painful as severing a limb. They didn't talk about anything really important, nor did Greg enjoy his company, but he was feeling sentimental. It reminded him of the morning he got dropped off on some trail by the waiter—Fuck, he literally died and Greg can't even be bothered to remember his name. Though, to be fair, he was high the entirety of their short-lived relationship—to inform Tom about his soon-to-be wife’s affair. He could have stayed a couple more hours in his bed, but he'd talked himself into doing this favor for Tom. As a friend. Took a beating instead of eating breakfast. Murdered as a messenger. 

He arrives at his seat next to Tom with his spine slightly curved to not bump his head. The legroom is a pleasure he will never acclimate to. He never had to money to fly before landing this job, but on the occasion he did, walking was an impossible task and he felt like a newborn dear navigating the airport afterward.

“Hello, worm,” Tom says, shooting Greg a curt glance before returning to his phone.

“What?”

“Early bird. Worm. You know?”

“I mean, the worm isn’t late. It’s not like being early would stop the worm from being eaten, right?” Tom just huffs.

Greg rests his chin in his palm and feels small bubbles of rage seething through his bloodstream. Entertains the hatethoughts about how Tom’s morning might have gone that make a home in his mind. His eyelids slip shut to truly savor them.

“Please don’t fall asleep on my shoulder again like last time.”

“Why did you run?” His lips were loosened by his chat with the driver. It makes Tom turn his phone screen down against his pants and face Greg.

He averts Greg’s gaze. “I was never in the room. Were you?” His eyes shoot to Greg’s. It clicks into place. Like an unruly zipper, they finally got back on their predestined trail. The manuscript wrote itself back within reason.

“No,” he replies out of obligation. Tom had distracted him with the notion of being free from this role that he hadn’t noticed him click a shiny new pair of handcuffs around his already bound wrists. 

”You’re not, like, upset, right?” The face he’s making—the crease and upturn of his brow and his unabashed grin that conspicuously hides a callous laugh—eggs him on. Taps that turn to continuous blows. “You understand why we can't-”

“No, no, I _understand_.” He lets himself crack a little under pressure and some of his anger seeps into his voice like venom. His upper lip threatens to twitch into a sneer, so he stands to talk to a flight attendant to change seats. He throws the family name around a bit and is able to land a seat in the back of first class.

He couldn't stomach seeing Tom’s expression or reaction to what could be called a tantrum. He keeps the champagne flutes coming at a regular pace, needs to be intoxicated to fog his mind from thinking too much about this. He tries to focus on the congressional hearings that they're coming back to.

Once he leaves the plane, he doesn't wait up for Tom and takes a cab to his apartment.

**

His hands shook to not touch Greg. To not reassure him that all of this was in jest. It was like comforting Greg had become comforting himself, and he couldn’t let it happen this time. Needed to climb back over the wall he’d built.

He knows he’s bursting at the seams. He always has to be honest, but he never comes undone. He can feel the threads that bind him slip loose in the night, his innards seeping through the gaps and staining his high thread count sheets with the truth.

He recognizes Greg as a body he needs to dispose of. Needs to chop him to bits and hide his bones in the wall. Instead, he laments over this corpse of a thing. His first intention towards him had always been to kill him. This family can only have one outsider and he would fight tooth and nail to stand among them, but he finds himself needing to protect Greg even though he’s already fated him to his downfall.

**

It feels so right to be alone right now. To be smoking a blunt from the fire escape now that the champagne was leaving his system. He got a call from Tom but left his phone vibrating on his bed. The apartment was still relatively empty, no decor to speak of. Anything Greg thought to buy seemed too kitsch, too cheap, too distasteful for a place like this. He felt too kitsch, too cheap, too distasteful to being _living_ in a place like this. It was hard to not think of himself as four children stacked in a suit. Too young. Too old to catch up on a lifetime of being spoiled and groomed to this lifestyle. Just _too_.

The ash reaches his fingers and burns him enough to drop the roach. Through the grates of the fire escape. Lovely. He dusts his lap before climbing haphazardly into the apartment to unpack. He scratches the newly growing hair on the back of his neck as he meanders to his bed, the air he’s breathing feeling thin. Ripping through the zipper of his luggage’s front pocket, a small glass bottle is sent flying to his concrete floor, scaring the living shit out of Greg and eliciting many _’fucks’_.

He bends down, crumbling to his hands and knees in the process to grab the bottle. He’s much higher than he originally thought. The pink glass refracts light through its rectangular form in angular shapes across the floor. He lifts it in his hand, reading in a familiar font _’My Burberry Blush’_. He shakes his head a couple of times, trying to remember when he slipped this into his bag. Stumbling back up to his bed, he notices the note on top of his clothes. _’Enjoy Fuckface!’_ were the words written in Tom’s broad scrawl.

It took everything in him to not lay his head, his face, in both of his hands. There was no one to bear witness to this weakness besides himself. His palms grew sweaty and he didn’t mutter, didn’t even think a word to himself. He gently shoves his bag off of his bed, the crashing of items ringing through his echoey room. There’s only a twin-sized space for Greg to lay with all of the clothes and takeout containers and bottles on the outskirts of this shape. He folds his legs to his chest to fit and feels the immature need to silence his existence with social media. Instagram maybe. Shopping might take his mind off things. He’s just going through the movements. Scrolling, taking his card from his back pocket, squinting to read the numbers.

He stretches out to lay on his belly and buries his fingers into a forest green sweatshirt that Tom had once deemed _’offensive’_ that he still owned. He holds it to his face and smells Tom’s cologne, which was hair-raising and made him a little breathless.

A heaviness sets into his body and he feels like he’s sinking into his duvet. The ghost of Tom’s hands press down against his shoulder blades, pinning him to the mattress, and Greg arches his back and rocks back and forth lazily to make the most of this haunting.

**

His lids feel harder to lift than usual and his mouth tastes of smoke and morning breath. He runs his tongue over his teeth to feel the layer of plaque that’s built up from the previous night. It takes him a lot of inner monologuing and many pep talks to rise from his mattress, his clothing feeling stale against his chaffed skin. A harsh wrapping on the door woke him up relatively early, and he waddles over to check. There is no one waiting on the other side, but a small package rests at his feet. Retail therapy.

His bones make an awful lot of clicking and popping sounds as he bends over to grab it. He has no recollection of what he’s bought for himself, so he strides to his couch with a giddy air that makes this objectively shitty morning a little more pleasant. He uses his teeth after a few seconds of trying to open the box with his hands, and he pauses once he sees the brand name on the plastic bag within. He’s seen it sober only once before, but that was enough.

An overwhelming sense of deja vu clouds his mind and all he can do to not short circuit completely is to blink slowly for a long beat. Add that to the list of ways he struggles in vain to emulate Tom: buying himself gifts that will _also_ humiliate him. Tom’s cult of personality has Greg impaling himself on his own sword of shame, disrobing from self-respect before Tom gets the chance to rip it from him.

To further sink onto this blade, Greg tears through the plastic and feels his stomach lurch. A heavily stoned Gregory Hirsch apparently thought a dark red bralette with a matching pair of opera length gloves was a _fun_ and _interesting_ purchase to make.

He doesn’t understand the force that urges him to reach the hilt of the sharp weapon and start to strip. The ties in the back are difficult to knot due to the slippery fabric and the pain in his shoulders. The gloves barely go past his elbow unsurprisingly. He doesn’t expect an intoxicated version of himself to get properly fitted clothing. He does himself the dishonor of taking in this fucked up fever dream in the full-length mirror. The boxers and black calf-length socks really _make_ this. He’s at a loss.

An alarm sounds through his apartment. He thanks white-collar crime for not having to deal with whatever _this_ is and undresses himself like he’s deathly allergic to satin, flinging it to the other side of the room on the floor to get ready for the hearing.

**

Looking over Tom’s broad shoulders and seeing him crumble into dust on the senate floor made his stomach flop. Rage. Seething. Boiling over. Receding.

It felt too much like he was being a real person. A person who acts on impulse instead of calculated and critical thought. Yelling at him felt real.

He finds his head clear when he’s around the Roys. He thinks it might be an unconscious defense mechanism to withstand the trauma, but those walls crumble for Tom with a simple _Greg_. His ideas run in endless circles like a snake eating its own tail. Only when he’s away from them all is he able to form coherent thought. 

He’s alone for the most part, making small talk with a few other people on the outskirts of this weird post-hearing reception party of sorts? It’s hard to lurk when he is the elephant in the room, but he is able to pick up on a few mumblings. Some have speculated that Logan could go private. If he doesn’t, someone’s getting hung out to dry. Lowered into the pigpen. The idea makes a coolness spread over his chest like falling water. He wrenches his eyes shut, blocking out the general noise of the room to calm the fuck down. He knows he probably looks a little insane, but when does he not, so he just leans against a wall with his eyes still closed, pursing his lips into a hard line. 

“Greg, you look like one of Harlow’s Monkeys, man. Are you okay?” The familiar voice says in a hushed, exhausted tone.

“Tom, I’m-“

“No. No, it’s alright. Really.”

“Are you for real? I know I kinda, like, overstepped, or something.” The second the word ‘real’ leaves his throat he fights himself to not scoff. 

“Yeah.” He looks around the room shifty-eyed. “Shiv is having a meeting with Logan tonight. Wanna grab dinner?”

“Yeah.” He cringes at how fast he answers. At how he betrays himself. He doesn’t want to want this. Knows he shouldn’t. And against it all, here he is. Posturing himself as the sacrificial lamb once again, the same as Tom in that nature. The word ‘sacrifice’ lingers in his mind a second too long and the room becomes suffocating. “Can we leave now?”

Tom’s face twists a little in shock, but he smooths it over quickly with a grin. “Yeah, buddy, that’s what I’m talking about! Wait outside. I’m gonna go tell Shiv bye.”

And so he does.

He waits for Tom. Lives his life waiting. Waits to live his life. He always waits for him. He probably always will as long as either of them exist. It may have started as some corporate self-help book power move tip, but now it feels like Tom doesn’t even do it on purpose anymore.

The wind eats through the thick material of his suit jacket and his poplin shirt underneath. It brushes along his ribs and around his waist in a cold and piercing embrace. It sinks into his pores like longing. Burns more now that he knows the warmth of affection’s flames licking his skin, even if it was an artificial fire.

**

This wasn’t catching a bite to eat. It was an apology. An apology that guilts him and angers him all at once. They both know why Greg is familiar with this restaurant.

Tom had asked him pretty early in his career to find a restaurant for Shiv and him to have a night out. It made him feel weird, obviously. Even then, it felt like Tom was hinting at something, letting Greg in on this relationship, but at the time it just seemed like Tom was the no-boundaries kind of friend. A true _bromance_. It also felt like a test, quizzing him on what he learned from Tom’s introduction to rich living. He was satisfied with the one Greg found, and he never spoke another word about it. 

Greg tries to glare but he knows he’s just staring wide-eyed as they stand outside.

“Hey, hey, what are you looking at? Do I look fine? Anything out of place?”

“Uh-no, everything’s, um, looking great.” He averts his gaze to the ground, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Looking great? Wow, Gregory, never took you to be _such_ a sweet talker.”

It’s unbecoming of Tom to be acting so sentimental. The last few days have been solely based on pushing limits. To what extent can they challenge their environment before breaking the status quo. Tom is mostly composed of mixed signals, Greg knows this, it’s just that it gets muddy when things aren’t as they have been and _should_ be.

Everything leading up to them sitting next to each other in this sushi bar—the walking, the touching, the sake list—blurs together and he goes blank.

“We buried a body, you and I. We’ve killed together.”

It snaps the silence like a twig in an empty forest and he feels the urge to dart behind a tree.

“We didn’t kill.”

“Yes. Yes, we did, Greg. I’m no fucking Plato level philosopher or moralist, but we did something, I don’t know, bad?” Greg nods, eyelashes folded towards his cheeks. “I’ve caught myself thinking, you know? Thinking ‘how could I ever live with myself after doing something like this?’, but I know that I can. I think I’ve abandoned good and evil.” Tom’s eyes are wide and he’s gesturing wildly with his hands. “I don’t feel like a person anymore. I don’t think I should. I just do whatever I need to, you know? Nothing right or wrong about it, really.” He’s baring his teeth in a wicked grin. “But then I think of you. How we’re both _fucked_. That we’re in this together. That if I go down, you’re going down with me, you know?”

Greg can feel his face pale. It horrifies him that a part of him thinks this is romantic in any way. Hand in ‘fucked’ hand. He doesn’t plan on going down. He desperately wants to fall from this tower that they’ve built, he knows it would be right, but he also knows when the time comes, Tom will be the only one leaping from the edge. 

The sole of Tom’s shoe rests on top of his foot. It could have easily been read as a mistake if Tom hadn’t left it there and pushed down slightly. He could hold a grudge for so many different reasons, but his appetite wets, growling with want. Tom would probably kill him if he stepped on his shoe, so he decides to return the favor by planting a firm hand on his thigh under the bar. He jolts at his touch. 

Tom’s desire rolls off of him in waves, and with each crash, Greg finds himself drowning in its immensity. He knows Tom wants to put his hand on top of his. Show him _yes, I like being touched by you and I want you to never remove your hands from my body_.

The chef lands a plate in front of them, and mindlessly, Greg mirrors Tom, eating a piece of the roll. With everything that’s going on, he’d expect himself to be frantic and anxiously grilling Tom on the future, but instead, he can even seem to find his worry within himself—if there is a self at all. The food that he swallows is just that: chewed up food. 

“There’s something with the fish”

“Oh shit, are we gonna get food poisoning?”

“At a place like this? Dear lord, of course not.”

Greg quirks an eyebrow to gesture him to continue.

“There’s fruit in the roll...Mango I think. It was really sweet. The fish is a little acidic. It’s, like, balancing.” He licks his lips before taking another bite.

“I couldn’t taste it.” He takes a sip from the sake glass he hadn’t realized was in his palm.

He knows he’s staring, but he thinks it might taste better, sweeter if it were coming from Tom’s mouth. Trickle-down economics, or whatever. Tom would lean over him, letting the liquid drip from his tongue down Greg’s throat, droplets spilling past the corners of his lips and leaving wet streaks along his cheeks, jaw, and neck to pool at his collarbone. Then, his mouth would crush against his, slipping uncontrollably while saliva and sake slicked their lips. He would snake his tongue past the entrance of his mouth and Greg would allow him to taste. He would explore every crevice between his teeth with both ardent curiosity and sickening familiarity. There would be no fight. He would stay put with his mouth open and pliant, tender and absolutely helpless.

He takes another sip from the thick rim of his glass.

He doesn’t remember what Tom’s ordered, but it feels like he’s adjusting him to his taste. He likes the idea of being a slab of clay for Tom to mold into something he’d fancy. Being made into something capable of being loved.

He eats another slice from the role while gazing into Tom’s eyes, making sure to eat slowly and swallow to show the bob of his throat. He lets his mouth fall open and sighs. His eyes are locked on his lips so shamelessly that Greg nearly breaks. He stands from the bar and walks to the restroom, head turned to face Tom until he’s afraid he will bump into something. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he closes the door to the unisex bathroom while smiling so hard the corners of his lips threaten to crack from lack of use.

Tom follows wordlessly, locking the door. He looks angry, but in a horny way, he guessed? He closes the gap between them and takes his smaller hand in his, raising it to his face. He opens his jaw like he’s about to sink his teeth into his flesh, but instead, his tongue unfolds from his mouth and broadly lavishes from his wrist to his palm. He slowly rolls his eyes towards Tom to savor his reaction. He looks ready to pop.

Tom roughly grabs him by the face, squishing his cheeks together, and forces his head against the wall while he devours him. Greg’s hands dig into his sides to pull him closer and tug at his clothing.

He gives up on trying to tease his mouth open and turns to maul his neck instead. Greg keens loudly in response and Tom halts.

“God, you fucking slut. You wanna get caught that badly?” He kisses along the skin that he’s bitten red. “Want everyone to know?” Tom’s just trying to exert what little power he has left, but it still makes him mildly recoil.

Whatever doubts he had, Tom erases every last one by massaging the front of his pants. He slaps a palm over his own mouth to muffle the groan that punches from his throat, but Tom rips it away to replace it with his tongue and he insatiably eats him alive. Mango.

He can hear himself gasping for air and Tom’s got such a firm hold of him through his pants.

“Don’t make a fucking mess,” he hisses in his ear before descending to the bathroom floor. A pang of arousal numbs the tips of his fingers, but he can’t help but notice how difficult a time Tom is having trying to overcome his disgust with the floor and to not crease his pants or stretch out the knees.

Greg runs his hands through his short hair and grips, directing him to settle. It fills him with dread that their appetites are competing. 

The ripping of his zipper and three sharp knocks to the door coincide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really love to read y’all’s commentary on this bc all of you are galaxy brained, and every comment y’all leave is another tool for my own psychoanalysis <3


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